Comes a roaring gale upon the skies,
The pines shall lift the weary ground,
And howl and blister in their rise.
Beyond the wood there stands a stone,
For which no language can define,
Alone unmoved, the ancient throne,
Of Man and Nature does entwine.
Beheld within a tale foreseen,
A timeless face considered old,
Till all is lorn in mosses green,
Rise vast gales that do take hold.
Now yearning for what life had been,
For a tale half told,
For a past unseen.